A Day in the Life of Forever
by hollow-ambitions
Summary: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. Sequel to Spider-Man 2, set eleven months following.
1. Prologue

**A Day in the Life of Forever: Prologue**

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_Peter,_

_ It's been over two years now, you know? He's been gone, and buried, for over two years. It's been six months since I found out who's behind the mask that took him. Can you believe that? Two and a half years of our lives right there… wasted… just…gone. You and I, obviously, haven't spoken once. How can we? I mean, it wouldn't be the same. That normal, happy atmosphere, Peter? It's gone. It's dead. It's buried. There would be tension… and… pain… an abundance of pain. You took my father away from me. How can we ever be as we were before? _

_ We can't be, and we won't be. I don't want to be. I don't even know who you are anymore, Peter. You've kept me in the dark for so long now, Pete, for so long, and when you finally let me out of the dark, I realize that you, that my best friend, is the one person who hurt me worse than anyone else ever could. You shoved a knife in my back, Peter, and I've yet to be able to pull it out. _

_ Come to think of it, you never did tell me, or explain to me, your reason for hurting me. We were friends, or so I thought, best friends even, and you hurt me. Betrayed me. And you don't care. _

_ By the time that this letter reaches you, by the time that your eyes are reading over the very words that I am writing now, I will be just as the friendship that you and I once shared: gone, dead and buried. _

_ I guess Spider-Man can't save everyone after all, eh, Pete?_

_Harry Osborn_

_June 25 11:12 P.M._

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	2. Chapter One

_This story is dedicated to Ilya._

_I miss you._

**A Day in the Life of Forever: Chapter One**

_There you go again_

_ Falling like a star_

_ Sinking like a stone_

_ Watching as the world you're in_

_Now takes its toll_

**Four Months Later**__

Midnight in Manhattan was the equivalent of twelve noon in Manhattan. Except, of course, there was no sunlight, and there was no sapphire sky. Overhead was the only feature that could successfully separate the two times. Below, though, amidst an endless sea of concrete, glass and steel, overhead was almost always overlooked. Swarms of people, laughing, talking, crying and gossiping, hurried to and from their destinations; oblivious to the darkness that had, at some point, enveloped them. Who was to blame them? Overhead meant nothing on a Friday night. It was the start of another weekend, and the ending of another work week. There were parties to attend, movies to see, restaurants to dine in… who would pay attention to what was overhead?

He used to be like them. Carefree. Never popular, though, not by any definition of the word. He was an outcast, a loner; an outsider. He was alone.

Alone because he paid attention to what was overhead.

Rocking slowly back and forth on his heels atop the flag pole that he was resting on, Spider-Man let out a small yawn as his eyes scanned the bustling streets that were forty five feet below him. "Quiet tonight," he concluded softly to himself, a twinge of anxiety momentarily crossing his senses. The Manhattan streets had been abnormally calm for quite a while. On the rare occurrences when there _was_ crime, it was nothing more than a mugging or a rape attempt, or an ambush courtesy of fellow New Yorker's that still saw him as a menace and a group or two of thugs that sternly believed that they could bring Spider-Man down. Nothing major had occurred in the eleven months following the incident with Doctor Octavius.

Spider-Man frowned beneath his red mask.

The calm before the storm.

He shook the ominous thought away and returned his concentration back onto the streets below. Screams sounded throughout the concrete jungle; an echoing fright that indicated that someone somewhere was not okay, and needed help. Spider-Man immediately was on his feet. "That's my cue," he smiled forlornly, and with a quick flick of the wrist, he was sailing through and around and over the endless array of concrete, glass and steel that was Manhattan.

"Someone please help me!" The young woman screamed out desperately as two of the four thugs pushed her into a corner of two adjoined buildings. "Leave me alone!" She demanded and promptly tried running away; screaming out once more as one of the thugs hurled her back into the corner. "Help me!"

A flash of red and blue flew across her vision and in fear the young woman covered her head with her arms and pressed herself firmly against the corner.

"Gentlemen, really, I'm shocked. This is _not_ how we make friends." Spider-Man sighed melodramatically as he effectively dodged an attack from one of the heavier thugs and then flicked his wrist; mounting him to the ground. The three remaining thugs, after witnessing what the webbed hero had just done to their buddy, quickly turned on their heels in a frantic attempt at freedom. Their actions were unsuccessful, and soon Spider-Man had them webbed and mounted to the ground just a few feet away from the heavy thug. "There. Let that be a lesson to you." He chuckled at their curses and then turned around to the terrified young woman who was still cowering in the corner of the adjoined buildings. "It's okay now, Miss, they won't be bothering you anymore." Spider-Man spoke soothingly to the young woman as he slowly inched closer to her, reaching out a gloved hand as an offer to help steady her trembling form.

The young woman slowly lowered her arms and gasped when she saw Spider-Man standing in front of her… walking towards her… reaching _out_ for her! "Keep away from me, you freak!" She yelled at the webbed hero and then hurriedly ran past him and down the street. Spider-Man stared at the spot where she had been cowering in fear only seconds earlier and remained motionless. _This_ was how you showed gratitude for someone having _just_ saved your life?! Spider-Man was used to New York hating him, was used to the citizens calling for his death and then turning around and calling for him when faced with the possibility of _their_ death, but _that_? He had _never_ experienced _that_!

Heaving a loud sigh, Spider-Man turned back around, and frowned at the four criminals that he had just webbed.

All four of them were smirking. They had found amusement in what had just happened.

Spider-Man shook his head and started down the same street that the unappreciative young woman had made her getaway on. Around him, swarms of people, laughing, talking, crying and gossiping, hurried to and from their destinations, stopping for a split second to gawk and marvel at the super hero who was walking down the same sidewalk as them before continuing on their way.

Only Spider-Man noticed the clouds that were slowly covering the moon overhead.

Peter Parker shifted awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair opposite the one man who, when as agitated as he was now, was worse than ten Green Goblins and five Doc Ocks _combined_. "They're crap. Crap, crap, crap and crap. Honestly, Parker, I don't pay you to take pictures of fluffy little bunnies in Central Park!" J. Jonah Jameson shouted at the young photographer and slammed down the stack of pictures in front of him, causing Peter to jump with surprise. The graying man pointed an accusing finger at the young freelancer. "You're fired! And don't come back until you have more pictures of that webbed menace! Now get out of my office and take your happy little portfolio with you before I lose my lunch!"

Peter sighed as he stood to his feet. "Yes, sir," he muttered in response and hurriedly snatched up his "happy little portfolio" and turned to leave.

He was greeted with a warm smile and sympathetic eyes. "Jonah givin' you a rough time again, Pete?" Robbie Robertson questioned the younger man. He chuckled softly when Peter's head slowly began to move up and down and then placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. "He's just cranky this morning. Your pictures are amazing, kid; don't let an old goon like J.J. convince you of otherwise."

Peter managed a small smile. "Thanks, Robbie." Robbie acknowledged the gratitude with a firm nod before turning away and starting back to his desk. The young photographer watched him for a few seconds longer and then pushed open the door that he was leaning against and began to walk towards the stairs and the elevators. Deciding on the elevator, Peter heaved another noisy sigh and counted the annoyingly chipper _dings!_ as the device slowly counted off floors.

It was only Tuesday, and Jonah had already fired him five times.

It was going to be a long, long, _long _week.

Peter shivered unexpectedly when he pushed open one of the four doors that were the main front entrances to the Daily Bugle and the cool air of the nippy October night hit him almost instantly. Wrapping his coat tighter around his trembling form and shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, he started off down the sidewalk in the direction of his apartment, wordlessly questioning just how many times his graying editor of a boss would fire him that week. Jameson's record was ten times in five days, and he was already up to five times in just two days. Would this be the week when the editor would break his record? Peter chuckled quietly to himself. It would not surprise him in the least bit if he were to get fired five or six more times. Seven times, even.

The young photographer sniffled as he unconsciously raised two fingers to just below his nose and then wiped the irritated spot clean. __

He shoved his hand back inside of his pocket. Or maybe even eight times? Peter could always just show up at Jameson's office with twenty five portfolios in hand and have each and every photograph be of "fluffy little bunnies in Central Park". "_Parker_!" He barked in his best portrayal of J. Jonah Jameson and laughed out loud at the image in his mind: Jonah sitting behind his overly bulky desk, a cigar in hand, and shouting at Peter that he did not wish to slip into a diabetic coma. "What the _hell_ kind of photos am I paying you to take?! You're fired! No, wait, I changed my mind, you're _un_fired! Err, no, no, wait, you're-"

An explosion from somewhere behind him knocked Peter out of his tirade and into a brick wall.

Peter winced as he gingerly ran his fingertips over the tender skin of his scalp before scrambling back up onto his feet and hastily scanning his surroundings. There were a few people, but not many, and the people that _were_ around him were too busy screaming and shouting and running for their lives. Peter took full advantage of the hysterical crowd and tossed his portfolio of "fluffy little bunnies in Central Park" up into the air and webbed it securely in the corner of two adjacent buildings. He yanked his mask out of one of his coat pockets and slipped the fabric down over his face and then hurriedly shed the rest of his clothing and webbed it securely in the corner next to his "happy little portfolio".

Spider-Man back flipped out of the alley and landed right in front of one of the terrified civilians.

"Sir, tell me, what happened?" Spider-Man was sure to have his tone as tranquil as possible. There was no need in further frightening the fleeing New Yorker's.

The middle-aged man that Spider-Man had asked for help from panted heavily as he tried to catch his breath. When he finally did speak a few seconds later, his words were low and bursting with fright, and Spider-Man found that he had to lean closer to the man to be able to completely hear and understand him over the chaos that was erupting around them. "There was an explosion at the Art Museum, Spidey! This group of men, they… -they looked pretty tough!"

Spider-Man nodded. "Thank you, now hurry and get to safety!" The man did not need anymore encouragement from the webbed hero and was soon lost amid the crowd of petrified New York citizens. Spider-Man turned away from the hysterical crowd and dashed down the opposite street in the direction of the burning Art Museum. He was at the crime scene within a matter of seconds and without any uncertainty Spider-Man flicked his wrist back and swung right into the burning landmark.

"Is there anyone in here?!" He shouted out against the deafening ominous crackles of burning steel, metal, wood and masterpieces. The death of another Manhattan building. "Hello?!"

"Spider-Man! Help!" A voice answered from somewhere on the second story, the tone terrified, its owner positive that he/she was going to burn to death in an Art Museum. Spider-Man hastily flicked his wrist back and landed gracefully on the second floor.

"Where are you?!" A tingling sensation started at the base of his neck. _Spider-sense,_ Spider-Man concluded to himself just as his sixth sense was screaming at him to move the hell out of the way. Hurriedly, the webbed hero jumped to his left, narrowly missing the fire-coated beam that crashed straight through the second story floor and slammed down onto the floor below him. Fresh flames exploded and sparks flew in each and every direction.

"I'm back here!" Ignoring the sizzling sparks and the fact that he was getting burned several times over in several different places, Spider-Man got a running start and then leaped over the giant hole that the beam had created when it had decided that it wanted to pay the first floor a visit. He took off down the first constricted hallway that he came to and shouted out to the voice, praying that its owner had not succumbed to all of the smoke. Spider-Man would not be able to find the victim without the victim's voice as a guide. "Door… faculty door…" _He's close._ The man was near by! Spider-Man began to anxiously read the signs on each of the doors; furiously blinking his eyes each time his vision began to grow hazy. The smoke was even starting to get to _him_! The webbed hero finally read the words _Faculty and Staff Only_ and he wanted to cry with joy. The man was going to be okay.

Spider-Man kicked down the door and entered the room. His lungs screamed at this action and he had to fight the urge to leave.

The room was full of smoke.

So much smoke that Spider-Man could hardly see two feet in front of him.

Coughing, the webbed hero shouted out to the man, "I'm here! Where are you?" A muffled groan was the only response that he was granted, but it was enough to locate the half-conscious man, and that was all that mattered. Spider-Man chose to ignore the tingling sensation at the base of his neck as he crouched down beside the injured man and warily lifted him up into his arms. Clutching the half-conscious man, Spider-Man cautiously started towards one of the windows in the room as he realized that the tingling sensation at the base of his neck hadn't stopped growing, and it was now screaming at him to move out of the way. He attempted to walk faster, but that resulted in jostling the man, causing him to whimper with pain. Spider-Man demanded his sixth sense to stop it and let up and, amazingly, it did.

The tingling sensation returned with a vengeance a few seconds later as a last attempt to warn Spider-Man of the inevitable danger. He didn't move.

A fire-coated beam crashed into Spider-Man's back and sent both he and the man sailing out of the window ten feet above the ground.

Spider-Man flicked both of his wrists back once he had realized that he was no longer holding the man and created a giant web just a few feet off of the ground. The injured man landed on the web in one piece and Spider-Man was reassured when he saw paramedics immediately rushing over to assist him. The webbed hero released a string of webbing from his wrist at the last minute and then landed safely on his feet beside two police officers. His legs buckled beneath him almost as soon as he had released the strand of webbing and he fell forward onto his knees. Spider-Man pushed his mask up to just above his nose and leaned forward; coughing violently from all of the smoke that he had inhaled and, in between, panting from complete and utter exhaustion. His entire body, especially his badly burned back, ached unbearably, and every nerve seemed to throb with pain.

The webbed hero did not notice that both police officers had crouched down beside him at some point until the one to his left smiled kindly and praised him, "You did good, kid." The officer then rested his hand warily on Spider-Man's back and flinched in concern as another wave of body-wracking coughs enveloped the webbed hero. "Do you need an ambulance?"

"No," Spider-Man answered promptly. The media would have a field day if Spider-Man had to be rushed off to the nearest hospital in an ambulance because he had inhaled his weight in smoke and had had a burning beam fall on him. Not to mention the paparazzi. They would be an absolute Hell. "I'm okay. Is that man okay?"

The officer to his right nodded. "Yes, he'll be alright. You got him out of there just in time, Spidey." Spider-Man was taken aback. Wasn't it just last night that he had rescued a young woman from four thugs, only to then have her show him her appreciation by shouting at him "keep away from me, you freak!" and then taking off down the street? Why yes, yes it was just last night. And yet now, eighteen hours later, two police officers were being kind to him and, Hell, one officer had even gone so far as to _touch_ him! They were showing him their gratitude, and they weren't doing so by shouting at him malicious tactless words that had caused him to spend the rest of that night and all of the next day convincing himself that she was just one person out of eight million people.

Eight million people. In a day's work, Spider-Man helped, effortlessly, over one hundred citizens. To half of those one hundred plus people, he was no longer a menace, and they were grateful for his gallant hard work, much like the two police officers were.

To the other half, though, Spider-Man, in their eyes, remained who he was rumored to be two years and eleven months ago: a menace. He could save these people a thousand times over, and he still would be a menace. That young woman was one of these people.

The youthful face hidden somewhere beneath Spider-Man's red mask suddenly felt very aged. Nearly three years into this masquerade, and four million people remained against him.

He could not be in that costume. "Well, my work here is finished," the red mask covered his dejected expression flawlessly. "You boys okay here?" Spider-Man stole a quick glance at his surroundings. "And where're the goons that started this fire, anyway?"

"Yes, we'll be okay," the officer to his left nodded. "And as for the 'goons', we were only able to snatch two of them. The rest were too fast. The two that we did manage to snag, though, both claimed that they were hired to do this."

Spider-Man frowned. "Hired? Did they say by whom?"

The officer shook his head. "No. They refused to give any names." The man eyed Spider-Man's white eye lenses thoughtfully. "Go home, kid. We can take it from here." Spider-Man needed no more encouragement to finally be able to rid himself of his despised attire. He nodded at the officer and then stood to his feet. With a single flick of his wrist, the webbed hero was out of sight within seconds. The man shook his head. "Come on, Dave, let's finish up here so that we can go home, too."

Neither officer seemed to notice the black and white silhouette that sat crouched down on a rooftop that was across the street from the lifeless Manhattan building.

**_To Be Continued…_**

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**AN: First attempt at a Spider-Man chapter story, second attempt at a Spider-Man story. **

**Please review and I will see you all in chapter two!**


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